


though it takes a little longer

by foreverautumn



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Connor always accomplishes his mission, Feelings Realization, M/M, Mistletoe, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 03:54:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16946505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foreverautumn/pseuds/foreverautumn
Summary: Connor points; after a moment of confusion, Hank tilts his head upward. His eyes widen when he spots the green bundle above him. "When the hell did that get there?""A few days ago," Connor answers.(Connor enjoys experiencing new things with Hank; kissing Hank would most certainly qualify as both new and enjoyable.)





	though it takes a little longer

As an android, Connor holds no particular attachment to any holiday. It is simply curiosity that drives him to ask Hank whether he intends to celebrate any of the upcoming winter holidays. The previous year, just after the revolution, both of them had been too preoccupied for such a discussion. Still, Connor suspects that the answer will be a _no_ , as he had not taken notice of any decorations in Hank's house or his desk at work back then.

It comes as a bit of a surprise when Hank admits that he'd used to celebrate Christmas. A few moments into his fumbling explanation, Connor is able to ascertain that after he'd lost Cole, well, there hadn't been much reason to celebrate at all, really. "It's alright, Hank," he says. "I hadn't meant to bring up any negative memories."

Hank pauses, drumming his fingers on his desk. "They weren't bad," he says finally, looking up to meet Connor's eyes. He smiles crookedly. "They were actually really fucking great."

Something stutters in Connor's chest. Hank's still smiling as he says, "Bet you'd really like Christmas lights and all that, your little LED would fit right in."

Connor casts his eyes downward, takes care to let a few moments pass before he answers. "I see. After all of this time, I'm still no more than a blinking light to you."

The sound of Hank's chair skittering across the floor makes it difficult for Connor to keep his face a stoic mask. Hank's arms thump against the desk as he starts, "Hey now, you know that was just a joke, don't you? Connor?"

Connor keeps his head down, only moving it slightly to the side when Hank tosses a pen at him. "Asshole. Like I'd believe you'd get upset by a joke like that. I've got way more cutting shit in my arsenal and you know it."

Connor reaches down to retrieve Hank's pen from where it'd ended up on the floor. He twirls it between his fingers, Hank's gaze locked on his hands. The intensity of it is almost enough to cause Connor to fumble, though it is likely not anything that Hank could pick up on. "Still, it was a bit rude, Hank."

Hank scoffs, gaze trailing up to Connor's face. "It was my way of inviting you to celebrate Christmas to your heart's content, if you wanted." He leans back, holding out a hand. "Now are you gonna return that pen, or what?"

"Of course not," Connor replies, tapping it rhythmically against his desk. "You'll only launch it again once my attention is elsewhere."

Hank opens his mouth to retort, then pauses. He leans forward incredulously. "Tell me you're not playing _'Jingle Bells'_ with my pen right now."

Connor looks back to his screen, still tapping away. "I am unfamiliar with the tune," he replies.

"Lies right to my face, and I'm the rude one," Hank says to no one. Connor tries not to smile.

\--

Somehow, that simple conversation had led to Hank discussing Christmas traditions with him every so often. Connor does not understand how the origin of the holiday has led to covering gifts in brightly-colored paper and baking cookies and taking photos with a man in costume at many of the local malls. Hank laughs himself hoarse when Connor asks if they would let him in the line for a photo if he were to explain it is his first real Christmas.

It is pleasant; not just that, but fun, sharing this with Hank. More often than not, their talks end in Hank with a smile on his face, and Connor much the same. When Connor suggests hanging lights in Hank's home, he agrees with minimal fuss, but then refuses to allow Connor to help. "These old hands still have some finesse, despite what you may think," he says, wagging a finger as he turns back to his work. Connor is struck momentarily silent, words stuck in his throat - _I am aware of the many favorable qualities of your hands, Hank_ \- but he keeps those thoughts to himself.

He is aware that some time ago, his feelings for Hank had begun to change; they've been evolving slowly, growing right along with himself. When he looks at Hank, it is difficult to stop himself from reaching out to touch, and when Hank touches Connor, it is impossible not to focus entirely on the sensation. Distracting, _unnecessary_ , a part of his programming still insists, but the larger part of Connor yearns for it. There is something brimming just beneath the surface, though he has not sought to name it. But now, there is only one way to categorize his feelings, solidified alongside Hank's explanation of mistletoe during a walk with Sumo. Connor quite easily constructs a scenario in which it is he and Hank beneath the mistletoe, leaning close to one another. Sharing a breath, an understanding - a mutual desire, before their mouths press together.

Hank calls out after him, startled, when Connor's feet carry him far ahead of his companions. He assures Hank he is just fine, simply distracted, and it is difficult to slow his pace again. He thinks that he could walk for days on end, and still the image of kissing Hank would never quite leave his mind.

Connor is afraid of this feeling. Hank cares for him, but - there is a difference between what they share now, and the hazy image of whatever could be. There are small moments, inconsequential in the long run, that lead Connor to think that perhaps Hank might feel it, too. It is all too easy to linger on these instances, but Connor is also well acquainted with the barriers between them. Despite all of the possible scenarios and conversations he constructs and pores over, there does not seem to be a simple way to broach the topic.

It is when he returns to the conversation about mistletoe that something clicks in his mind, a new task solidifying itself. Connor does not waste time, approaching this task as he would any other, perhaps with a bit more eagerness than most. He replays Hank's words in his head - _celebrate Christmas to your heart's content_ \- in order to distract himself from any lingering doubt. After procuring the mistletoe, he hangs it in Hank's home, waiting for Hank to notice or comment. He does not seem to realize it is there, until three days later when Connor does not step aside to let him pass into the kitchen.

Connor points; after a moment of confusion, Hank tilts his head upward. His eyes widen when he spots the green bundle above him. "When the hell did that get there?"

"A few days ago," Connor answers. He can feel something pulse hot and heavy in him when Hank meets his eyes. His fingers itch, and slowly, carefully, he reaches out to place his hands on Hank's shoulders. He meets no resistance.

"Connor," Hank chokes out, caught off guard. Red rushes into his cheeks, arms hanging limply at his sides, and Connor wishes so dearly to kiss him. Wants to be as close as he can be, as close as Hank will allow him.

"Hank," he says, Hank, _Hank_. Connor leans closer, a low thrum vibrating deep in his chest. The look in Hank's eyes - Hank _must_ \- he would not have allowed this to go beyond a laugh and a nudge to Connor's side, if he held no desire for Connor.

Connor's fingers twitch against Hank's shoulders. _Finally_ , and yet - finally, what?

"Connor, I--" Hank starts, a slight edge of panic in his voice. He raises a hand suddenly, places it squarely on Connor's chest. 

Connor stops immediately. Everything, everything stops, until the wave of disappointment, one he cannot keep from turning his expression, rushes through him. _A miscalculation._ He removes his hands from Hank. Had misread everything, in the end. The probability of this ending successfully had not been high enough to warrant the risk; even so, he had felt almost sure. Had thought -

"Gonna pass, Connor," Hank says gruffly, patting Connor's chest twice. There's a small tug at the corner of his lips, though there is something sad in it. His hand falls away awkwardly as he steps back.

"It's tradition," Connor says. It is not the proper explanation or sharply delivered argument he should be offering up right now, but Connor is unable to focus on much more than attempting to analyze where, exactly, he had gone wrong. Had he misinterpreted each of Hank's soft looks, warm touches, each kind word? How had he let himself be blinded, when all of the reasons not to attempt this had been so clear, listed neatly beside all of the reasons Connor had wanted so desperately to?

"I know." The smile transforms into a grimace. "You don't gotta do something just 'cause it's tradition."

Suddenly, Connor is paying more attention. The tightness in Hank's expression, the guarded look in his eyes - perhaps -

"I wouldn't." Despite how he longs to reach out, Connor does not think he could bear to be denied again. It is his own fault, but it does not ease the feeling in his chest as Hank eyes him warily. "Hank, I..." The words are not there, merely an uncertainty building, one he has not felt with Hank for a long time.

"Don't worry about it," Hank says eventually, not meeting Connor's eyes. He steps back into the living room and wanders over to the couch, flopping down unceremoniously. Connor watches him, unsure what to say. Hank does not appear to notice he is staring at a blank TV screen.

Connor looks above him. It only takes a few moments to remove the mistletoe from the archway, to toss it onto the kitchen counter. He presses his fingers into it, useless information about the plant appearing just as quickly as he dismisses it. Connor frowns. He had thought - he had _wanted_ -

He turns around to find Hank still gazing at the blank screen. He may not want to experience the feeling of rejection again, but he wants Hank to understand that - it had been more. Even if he is unable to reciprocate Connor's feelings, he wants him to _know_ \- 

It only takes a few strides to join Hank. He nearly jumps when Connor sits beside him. "H-hey," he greets weakly, fingers fumbling between the cushions in a futile search for the remote. Connor picks it up from the table and hands it to him. "Thanks," he mumbles, powering on the TV.

Connor considers not saying anything at all. Letting this pass. And it could pass, he believes. There is a high probability that Hank will never bring it up again, if Connor does not. Rather than causing a sense of relief, it only brings about an inexplicable ache.

Perhaps he is being selfish. Even so, it is Hank who constantly encourages Connor to allow himself to want things. After a moment he reaches out, lets his fingers wrap gently about Hank's knee. He freezes up, but does not shake Connor off.

"Hank." He does not have any idea what he is doing, and it would help if Hank would just - do anything _other_ than stare unblinkingly ahead. "Hank," he repeats, exasperated.

He eventually turns, expression carefully controlled. "What is it?" he asks, as though nothing strange has transpired. Nothing of note. He had known that Hank would cling wholeheartedly to the idea of not discussing this at all, but it still hurts, somewhat.

"Are you angry with me?"

Something flashes across Hank's face; guilt, mixed with another emotion. He shakes his head roughly, covering his face with a hand, and sighs. "I'm not mad, Connor." Connor had suspected as much, but this is already more tolerable than a blank, stony-faced Hank.

"But you are upset," Connor states. Hank shifts his hand just enough to uncover his eyes, incredulous gaze fixated on Connor. He focuses on forming his next words. "Please correct me if I am wrong, but what seems to have upset you is the fact that I attempted to kiss you underneath the mistletoe?"

Hank barks out a laugh, hiding his face again. "Wow. Amazing deductive work there, can't believe you managed to piece it together."

Connor's fingers twitch, squeezing at Hank's knee. "So my assumption was correct." He ignores Hank's derisive snort and continues, "However, I have an additional question."

Hank scrubs at his face before dropping his hand with a sigh. "And what on earth might that be?" he asks, fixing Connor with a weary look.

"Would you be upset if I were to attempt to kiss you otherwise?" Hank's eyes widen, color rising from his neck into his face. Connor presses onward, unwilling to turn back. "If I were to kiss you now?"

Hank inhales a sharp breath. His hand lands on top of Connor's, warm, but his tone does not match it. "Connor, stop."

"You haven't answered me, Hank." Frustration billows through him, irritating and unpleasant. The sting of Hank's rejection replays itself in his mind, over and over. "If it is the very idea of me wanting to kiss you that upsets you, I will not attempt it again. I will of course respect your wishes, Hank, but please." Hank does not flinch when Connor leans closer. "Just be honest with me. I won't speak of my feelings ever again if you do not wish to hear."

Hank's eyes widen, more so than before. He swallows thickly. "Your - feelings?" he croaks.

Connor releases a small sigh of his own and closes his eyes. "Yes, Hank." Why does Hank have to make this so difficult? Does he think Connor is suddenly a master of emotion? It seems a ridiculous assumption that kissing Hank beneath the mistletoe would simply resolve all of the feelings with which he has been struggling.

He places his hand to his chest, above where his pump regulator lies. If Hank were to place his hand here, he would not feel a human heartbeat. Hank may care for Connor, he knows this much to be true, but that does not mean he could see Connor in this way. As -

"Connor." Hank's fingers curl around Connor's own. He looks down; they are effectively holding hands. Hank squeezes, hold growing more secure. "Your feelings, Connor," he insists. His voice is gruff, face close enough that Connor can nearly feel the warmth of his breath.

"How much clearer do I have to be, Hank?" His gaze slips to Hank's lips before trailing back upward. The splotchy color in Hank's cheeks cannot be categorized as anything other than lovely, to Connor. "This is really quite agonizing, having been rejected once already, so if you could just tell me whether you--"

He falters as Hank looms nearer. Their mouths are terribly close. Connor could calculate each of the angles their mouths could collide, like this; instead, he lets out a stuttered breath, gazes into Hank's eyes.

"Of course I do, you jackass." Connor does not think it had been necessary to cut off his question, nor insult him, but he does not particularly care. "How could I not? You, you're--" Hank shakes his head, nose brushing Connor's. "How could I not?" he repeats, quieter, gaze soft and filled with wonder, and Connor has heard enough. He squeezes Hank's hand in his, and bridges the distance between them.

It is warm, and dry. Gentle. He is instantly aware of various additional data regarding Hank, but it is not enough; Connor longs to be closer. He tilts his head, their lips slotting together in an even more pleasing manner. Hank raises his other hand to cup Connor's jaw, thumb running over his cheek. Heat swarms beneath the spot, all along the curve of his lips, to the places where Hank's beard presses into his skin. Connor lets out a soft sigh of content, wonders how he could ever run out of new ways to kiss Hank, to hold him near. Hank shifts, kisses him again as his lips part, seemingly unwilling to let Connor go; Connor responds in earnest, each spark ignited within him fizzling out, only to begin anew. 

When Hank does pull back, it is just far enough to press his forehead to Connor's, eyes still shut. "God, of course," he says again, as though there had been no interruption in his earlier train of thought. When Hank blinks open his eyes, the clear fondness there leaves Connor certain something has somehow become dislodged inside his chest. "I dunno what you see when you're looking at me, even with all those fancy scanners and everything, but I know what I see when I look at you." His thumb strokes Connor's cheek, a tender caress that Connor does not stop himself from leaning into.

"And that is?" Connor cannot help asking.

Hank smiles, a crooked, honest smile that reveals the gap in his teeth, and his answer comes easily. "The best man I know."

Connor moves forward again; this time, Hank meets him. He will tell Hank afterward, of course - that it is the very same, when he looks at Hank.

**Author's Note:**

> 100% inspired by the hannorweek post I happened to see on tumblr a few weeks ago, with the day 2 prompt being: mistletoe! This was written rather quickly (I lost track of time until the last minute *sweat*) and for fun, so please forgive the silliness and massive fluff.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read♥! Happy holidays to you all! (If you'd like to hit me up on [tumblr](http://foreverautumnblog.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/autumnandroid), please feel free!)


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